This is Part One of a short story, adapted from a screenplay written many years ago, which I wanted to share - it has absolutely NOTHING to do with Marvel, and all to do with ⚠️ spiders - so if you’re not a fan (of spiders), you may wish to skip this one. It’s also got a bit of an X-Files vibe… should you like that kind of thing.
There are two parts to this story - mainly due to the length of it! So… here’s the first, and the second will be published August 20.
An average street, a terraced row of repeated forms; different doors and window frames delineating change. Some homes have added blooming hanging baskets from wrought iron hooks.
A cyclist traverses the road, throwing a newspaper from his bag onto the stoop of one of the houses to his left. Man Found Butchered the headline glares on the masthead. The image below the text gruesome and stark in the morning light.
The door opens.
Though sunshine bathes the street, the hallway is shadow. A woman steps into the gap between out and in, wearing a man’s white shirt and little else. Gracefully, she reaches for the paper, her darkly painted nails curling around the folded sheets.
Returning inside, she pushes the door shut with her naked foot.
The corridor is narrow, one lone lamp burning but hardly illuminating the space. She drops the paper beside it, continuing to the kitchen at the end of the hall. The wall decorations are obscured by the lack of light, but as the kitchen brightens, the corridor is revealed.
A huge spider’s web design in running blood.
A large black widow spider filling the west wall.
On the kitchen counter is a container filled with murky red liquid. The woman collects a goblet from the cupboard. She pours the elixir. Lifts it to her lips. She drinks, long and hard.
The beverage is thick, dark, and begins to trail down her chin, onto the shirt. Once the goblet is drained, she releases it.
It shatters on the tiled floor.
The butchered man lies still. He is shirtless, and has been drained of blood. His heart and eyes have been removed with jagged cuts. There is a burned image of a spider on his forehead. Muffled voices carry as technicians gather evidence, as police canvas.
Beyond the tape, on the road approaching the riverbank where the victim lies, a sedan travels. Detective Jacob Getty steps from the vehicle first, followed by Detective Sara David.
‘Seeds?’ he asks, offering the pack to her.
She looks unimpressed, shakes her head.
He shrugs.
‘The initial report placed cause of death as massive stab wounds, blood loss, and the removal of heart and eyes,’ Sara says, pauses. ‘Then the attacker carved their calling card.’
‘Another burnt spider insignia,’ Jacob chimes in.
‘Yeah.’ She nods. ‘The victim’s Mark Pechman, a Caucasian male, aged twenty-six, and single.’
‘Any confirmation of weapon?’
‘If it’s like the others,’ Sara explains, ‘then a serrated hunting knife and branding iron.’
‘We’re dealing with a total psycho,’ he mutters.
‘Technically a person with obsessive homicidal tendencies.’ They duck under the tape, and look over the body. ‘This looks too similar to be a coincidence.’
‘You sure you don’t want any?’ Jacob holds out the crumpled plastic bag of sunflower seeds.
With resignation, Sara takes a small pinch. She chews, studying the murder victim in more detail. The destruction. The pallor of his skin now the blood has been claimed. The savage slices in his flesh where organs have been removed. She sighs, this was definitely the same killer.
She had no doubt.
Especially when she registers the bite mark on his neck.
They split up; Detective Sara David visiting the pathology lab to review the autopsy, Detective Jacob Getty reviewing the meagre evidence. He is working through it, searching for anything which would help narrow down a suspect. Mark Pechman’s file is slim.
Regardless, he copies over the addresses and names.
Casually, he looks at his watch then grabs his coat.
In a suburban home, a man is reading the newspaper. A young child pushes a train around the floor. A woman is setting the table. The noise of the child’s delighted cries mix with the hum of the oven.
Outside, Getty parks up in front of the large lawn and checks he has the correct address before cutting the engine. His stride measured, he walks to the panelled front door. Rings the bell. Steps back.
‘Mrs King?’ He raises his identification for her to check. ‘Detective Getty, Homicide; is your husband home?’
She nods, welcomes him in. ‘Yeah. Ben, you’ve a visitor.’
Ben stands, paper dropped, to greet Jacob.
‘I notice you’ve seen the news, so I assume you can guess what I want to talk to you about,’ he explains.
‘Am I a suspect?’ Ben asks, a tremor in his voice.
‘Should you be?’
He shakes his head firmly, furtively glancing to the kitchen where his wife and son are safely away from their conversation.
‘Then, no.’ Jacob smiles slightly. ‘Tell me about the relationship you and Mark Pechman had, and what kind of person he was.’
‘He was a loner really,’ he says. ‘We were friends, sure, and we went fishing together sometimes. I’ve known him since school.’
‘Do you know of anyone who’d wish to kill him?’
‘Hell no.’ Ben folds his arms loosely. ‘I mean, he was a loner; he had few friends and no enemies I know of.’
‘You sure?’ Jacob looks at his open notebook.
‘Yes.’
‘What about Aranea Wolf?’ Jacob pauses, watching for a reaction, a glimmer of doubt. ‘What was his relationship with her?’
Ben swallows, weighing his words. ‘I don’t know. There was a lot of tension and some rumours. I teased him about it sometimes. I guess they were friendly. Intimate like….’
King’s eyes complete the sentence.
‘Ok. If you think of anything else, please contact me.’ Getty hands over his card. ‘Thanks.’
Back in the car, Jacob rests his head back and closes his eyes. He sighs, looking down at his list of names. Crossing out King, he reviews the next one before dialling David to fill her in while driving away.
A woman replaces books on the Ironton Library’s shelves. She wears clear-framed glasses, her black hair twisted into a bun. She turns her head, her lips slightly parting, hearing the door open. The books left to fall in a heap when she stands.
She meets him halfway, removes her glasses.
‘Detective Jacob Getty, Homicide.’
‘Aranea Wolf, Librarian,’ she says with mirth and smiles. ‘I’m sorry, how can I help you, Jacob?’
‘According to my files, you are a friend of Mark Pechman.’
‘Yes,’ she says. Nods. ‘What’s happened?’
‘You don’t know?’ Jacob’s skin chills, his jaw ticks; he never enjoyed sharing bad news. ‘It was in the paper this morning… I assumed you’d have been informed. I’m sorry, he’s died.’
Aranea turns away, sitting on the edge of the desk in the centre of the room. She looks, unfocused, to the floor.
‘He was murdered.’
‘Was it terribly violent?’ she asks faintly.
‘It wasn’t pleasant.’ He pauses. ‘I’m going to tell you the truth. His heart and eyes were removed, and a spider insignia burnt—’
‘A spider? What type of spider?’ Her head snaps up.
‘We don’t know. Is that important?’ Getty had hoped revealing the cause of death in detail would illicit a response, maybe even betray guilt. But Wolf’s reaction about the spider made him hesitant to provide any more information.
‘Probably not.’ Aranea stands, walking over. Eye to eye. Her dark irises uniquely marked. ‘Just personal interest, I guess. I know a little about spiders… perhaps, maybe, I could help.’
‘Maybe. Have you any pictures, or books… stupid question.’
‘I’ve some at home which would be more useful.’ She smiles. ‘Do you mind giving me a ride?’
‘No problem; I appreciate the help.’
Aranea reaches behind the reception desk, pulling out her black wool coat. Turns off the lights, locks the doors. In silence, they walk to the car. Jacob opens the door for her, and she gets in.
The hallway is brightly lit; no dripping spider web, no black widow on the wall. They walk through, toward the kitchen. At the stairs, Aranea says she is going to change, but invites Jacob to continue through.
While alone, he sits on a stool beside the counter. He looks around and notices something shining on the tiled floor. Stooping down, he uses a latex glove to prevent damage to the small piece of glass. A red stain is on one side. Carefully, he slides it into an evidence envelope and puts it in his pocket.
He sits back as Aranea arrives.
Her work clothes replaced with casual jeans and a white shirt. Opening the fridge door, Jacob’s view is obscured. The interior holds several ceramic dishes; a heart and eyes stored.
‘Want a drink?’ she asks.
‘No, thank you.’
She closes the door, and instead pulls a half-empty bottle of red wine from the counter. She pours a large glass before sitting beside him.
‘At least he had no family,’ she remarks.
‘His friends must be upset though.’ Getty frowns, watching her take a large mouthful of wine. ‘From what I’ve heard, I thought you—’
‘What have you heard?’
‘That you were close.’ He gives a look. The look. The look that says more could be voiced, but he would not. Unless he had to.
‘I’ve seen a lot of death,’ she says with a shrug, ‘it doesn’t affect me anymore.’
‘But a close friend—’
‘It doesn’t affect me anymore.’ She throws her head back and drains the glass. A small rivulet escapes, tracing her sepia chin. Aranea catches it and licks her finger. ‘The study’s upstairs, will you come up?’
Jacob nods. They stand. She places the glass down; it tips on the edge of the counter and falls to the tiles. Shatters.
‘Damn,’ she mutters.
At the laboratory, David is intently reviewing the information; the Medical Examiner’s report interesting reading. The specimens and results make her pause, make her curious. Make her concerned.
Barefoot, Aranea treads the stairs. Jacob follows; noting the spider prints on the staircase, the web-like border pattern on the wallpaper tracking the handrail.
‘Interesting décor,’ he murmurs.
‘Thank you, I designed it myself.’
They reach the landing. Aranea pauses by the alcove, between two doors. She taps the glass gently, stirring them. A large spider crawls along the sheet, displaying her markings; a red hourglass.
Getty points to it, moving closer. ‘What’s that?’
‘A black widow, Latrodectus Mactans. Isn’t she beautiful.’ Her voice is wistful, whimsical; her eyes shine.
‘Mmm, sure.’ He does not sound sure.
‘I picked her up on assignment.’ She strokes the glass gently, the spider’s paws mimicking the movement.
‘On assignment?’
Wolf ignores the question, opening the study door. She shows Jacob in and invites him to take a seat. He shakes his head, instead roves the pictures and display cases. There are spiders and spider-related items everywhere. On every surface.
‘You’ve a real thing for spiders, don’t you?’
‘Something like that.’ She pauses. ‘What’s the insignia like?’
Getty produces the image from his phone while Wolf reaches for a book. Her glasses back on, she compares.
Though it was unnecessary.
‘A female black widow, like my girl outside.’
‘You certain?’ He frowns.
‘Absolutely.’ She reaches for a notepad and pen. Her darkly painted nails coil around them, quickly writing down the name before removing her glasses and looking up to him. Her mouth slightly open.
She stands.
Kisses him. Nips at his lip.
Jacob is surprised, too shocked to resist; he responds.
The phone interrupts. His phone. Jacob pulls away and Aranea leans on the desk as he answers it. She bites a nail absently, sulking. He walks away, toward the door, the landing.
‘I’m kinda busy,’ he states.
‘Aren’t we all,’ Sara says curtly. ‘You need to come to the lab.’
‘Can’t it wait?’
‘No.’
‘Can’t you tell me now?’ he suggests.
‘You need to see this,’ she retorts. ‘Get here.’
Jacob sighs, sliding the phone back into his pocket and retraces his steps. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Shame; just when it was getting interesting.’
‘Perhaps you can help me tomorrow,’ he says hoarsely. ‘I still need some… detail.’
‘Close the door on your way out.’ She twists to her chair, her back to him and hands on a book.
Getty begins to say something, but stops himself. He turns to leave, a confused dent marking his brow.
Sara David’s chin rests on her upturned hand, the other methodically works the borrowed computer; applying spider silhouettes to distorted branding on flesh. She is intent on the images and unaware of the spider padding towards her hand.
The door opens; Jacob Getty arrives.
‘Sorry to drag you away, but I need to show you something.’
Turning, she does not feel the spider crawling up her arm.
‘I found an insignia,’ he states, continuing into the room and passing over the piece of paper. ‘A female black widow spider.’
‘I didn’t know your handwriting had changed,’ she says wryly.
‘I had a little help.’
‘I thought so.’ She shakes her head, standing. The spider drops from her elbow and scuttles away as she and Jacob cross the morgue. Sara gestures to the coroner, who opens the door of the cabinet.
Mark Pechman’s body revealed on the metal slab.
‘These bite marks on the neck are human,’ Sara explains.
‘Human?’ Getty folds his arms.
‘Yeah.’
‘Perhaps Aranea Wolf’s more passionate than she admits.’ Heat flares up his spine as he considers her action earlier.
‘If she is, I’d worry.’ Sara pauses, glances to him. ‘Pechman died from a powerful a-Latrotoxin, fifteen times more potent than rattlesnake venom, administered before his heart and eyes were removed. The only puncture marks are these bite marks.’
‘Has the poison been identified?’ He looks to the coroner.
‘It’s from a black widow spider; but there are no fang marks, and you can’t force a spider to bite,’ Sara interjects, her dark eyes an apology to the coroner who is returning Mark to his chamber. ‘It looks like the person we’re looking for isn’t actually a person at all.’
‘Detective David, you surprise me. Half spider, half human… sounds like we’re searching for a cartoon villain.’ He laughs.
‘As you so often remind me, stranger things have happened.’ Sara smiles sardonically.
Jacob reads through the toxicology report, while waiting for her to collect her bags. The spider returns, delicately on her sleeve.
‘Did you find anything else?’ she asks.
‘Only that he had no family, and a few friends. I’ve spoken to both of them… well, almost. You called while I was with Aranea. I said I’d go back tomorrow to finish off,’ he explains.
‘Anything useful?’
‘There’s something she doesn’t want to talk about, some assignment or work connection.’ He shrugs, closing the file. ‘But she’s a spider expert which could be useful.’
The spider approaches Sara’s neck.
‘What’s wrong?’ She frowns at his worried expression.
‘Don’t move,’ he croaks.
‘What’s wrong?’ she says more urgently.
‘Spider. Black widow… don’t move.’ Jacob looks for anything he can use to remove it. Report held high, he steps closer, arm out, to try and dislodge it.
‘Don’t provoke it!’ She is barely breathing.
‘Trust me.’
He fails to get close enough.
Sara yelps, her eyes closing and olive face a grimace; the neurotoxic venom races her bloodstream. Her muscles begin to cramp. Pain starts to stab her heart. It was all happening fast.
Too fast.
At Ironton’s Hospital, Detective Jacob Getty paces back and forth outside a private room. He takes a deep breath, pauses, knocks, then enters. Detective David lays in bed, but turns her head to him, watches him pull up a chair beside her.
‘How’s the case?’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ he says. ‘How’re you?’
‘Fine. I’ll be back to help soon enough.’ She smiles. ‘Thank goodness for antivenin; and for getting me here so quickly.’
He shrugs nonchalantly. ‘I’ve been trying to track down the spider, or the owner; it’s vanished, no trace. And there’s only one spider owner in town, from what I can gather.’
‘Wolf.’ Her eyebrows rise.
‘Yeah, but none of hers are missing.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. I’ve seen the tank; they couldn’t escape that.’
‘Then maybe she took it out,’ she suggests.
‘I doubt she’d do—’
‘Jacob, she might.’ She sighs. ‘You’ve known her less than a day. Investigate her past, and see if there’s something worth pursuing.’
‘There’s no point.’ Getty shakes his head. ‘This is a homicide, he was bitten, sure, by the spider in the same place as the love bite. Maybe she even tried to suck out the poison—’
‘Jacob—’
‘—but my guess is it’s not connected. I can’t see any connection with the other cases, apart from the carvings.’
‘We’ve evidence—’
‘Not enough that makes sense,’ he argues. ‘There’s no trace of anything we need to solve this.’ He pauses, places his hand over hers and squeezes. ‘Sara, just get better, ok. Don’t worry.’
He stands, leaves; the door swinging shut behind him.
Sara, on the bed, remains ticked off with his attitude. Not toward her, that was fine, but toward the case. Getty was distracted, which was unlike him. He was normally the one to make the link, make the leaps between the seemingly unconnected. This really felt odd.
But she was tired, so tired.
The door opens; a woman in a white coat strides in.
In the car, Getty absently ponders different aspects of the case. The piece of glass in his pocket jolts to his mind. Rapidly turning, he steers away from the exit and back into a space.
The Menagerie is an anthology of poetry, prose, and short stories with some illustrations. There’s also a playlist!
Part Two (the conclusion) can be found here:
How am I supposed to wait for August 20??? This was so good, and I hate spiders 😅
https://open.substack.com/pub/ariadnepautina/p/black-widow-329?r=56yrl1&utm_medium=ios
Because I can’t figure out how to edit and add the link to part two… but I’ll update it if I can so it’s in a better place than just a comment! 🖤